I am not a blind man
by delga
Summary: Ziva, Hiatus II. You will not go gentle into that good night.


**i am not a blind man.** (NCIS)  
ziva david, then & now; defining yourself in context  
_you will not go gentle into that good night._

this fic was written for the _**femgenficathon (2007)**_. with thanks to _**twincy**_ for poking, supplying Oxford Commas, and bringing hypothetical pompoms. Any remaining errors belong solely to me. no copyright infringement intended.

--

_Sometimes it's worse to win a fight than to lose._ -- Billie Holiday.

--

It is the thing that you know near instinctively, like taking in one breath and expelling it before taking the next. It is the thought that shadows your hand when you move to strike, and the weight of the act caresses every notion. _An eye for an eye_. But you will not go gentle into that good night. When Death comes you will be waiting, and you will go out with both of your eyes.

--

**i am not a blind man.**

--

_He is wrong, he is wrong, he is wrong._

--

Ari, Ari, Ari—— the flight to Tel Aviv is altogether too long and not long enough. Special Agent Gibbs signed the body off to you and put the gun in his hands. One lie for another. Your brother for Kate Todd. The tally goes on. You fly back to Tel Aviv, immutable bloodstains on your hands. Try as you might, you cannot wash them clean.

--

An eye for an eye.

--

To pull the wool over one's eyes is an expression that later you will hear from Ducky. It is one of many you will learn, forget, malapropriate and be corrected on. So fitting, so true. Ari, a wolf in sheep's clothing—— so many idioms, you think, your French is definitely better.

An eye for an eye is something that you comprehend, and for every strike across your back one is mirrored on another's. Your father taught you the way of things and struck your face for every time you struck against him. Punishment equal to the crime, and bloody knuckles, four score. Test your hand, make a fist; hiss when it hurts, and breathe deeply.

He brings the boy to your home, your mother's abode, and installs him there without a second glance at the gathered parties. The boy is slim and undernourished, with a roundness to his face that you cannot place, though his nose is straight like your father's. They call him Ari Haswari and you know that he is not like you. You pass him bread across the table when no one else is looking. He does not look back. Harmless, you think; just a boy like all the other boys that you know, and yet different, too.

In the morning you race to school, Tali's hand in yours, and from behind, the boy watches as you go.

--

Tali, the dew from God's lips, whose breath was the morning song and whose name was the joy in everyone's hearts. Ari, too, softened by _her_ hand; Tali, the one who nursed the sick, and she the one to cool your temper. Tali, your mother's flesh, your mother's mirror, and thus yours too. Tali, the clearest light of day. You can fool the world, but not your sister, and this made her at once your greatest ally and your weakest link.

--

In exchange for the bread you receive: nothing. Your father tells you that this boy, this silent, shapeless boy, is your brother, and you accept the information with a nod of your head, as though boys not born of your mother materialised daily and were insinuated into the family. Tali is shy around him and she brings him oddments – a button, some flowers, an extra loaf of bread. You watch from afar, the way his mood swings, or the way your father's hand lands on his shoulder, and the feeling seeded in your gut is mixed, equal parts envy and anguish. Envy, for what he takes from you; anguish for what his life will be.

There are two halves to all things: the half that you want, and the half that you discard.

--

You run, the dust beating against your legs. Run, and never die, never lie in the sand. For every pace ahead of him, Ari flexes his legs and you, you run as though to take flight from the ground.

Your father had wanted sons, and was given Ari. You had wanted brothers and soon that wish, too, will be granted to you. Your sister died, and her name was but a whisper on your mother's lips. Ari Haswari made his way into the earth and your father bloodied his fists in anguish. This is why you will eventually leave. The lies will seem clearer then; you will not be a blind man.

You pride yourself on the place you take in this house, both daughter and son to your father. There were times when he looked at you, and gave you pause; there will be times yet to come when he will look at you and you will no longer be able to meet his eyes.

--

Tali sings.

--

By your brother's hand you learned to shoot, and in learning to shoot, to kill. You aim at lines of empty bottles, a trick he learned in America where he travelled first, leading your way. He spends long months away, only to return and tease you, your incessant boyishness. When will you be the girl that you were born to be? He asks. You straighten your shoulders and press down on the trigger. Perfect shot. Your brother laughs. Years later you will know the phrase _to have the last laugh_, and the irony will strike you silent.

And you are fond of him, it is true. He brought sweets for the girl and gave you a knife, taught you to bind it to your foot. The game was thus: a gift for a gift. He brought wonders and in return you told him what you knew of your father and his exploits. Your brother's hand would grip your hair if you resisted but he was always careful to stage it as play. Gifts for gossip; he buys your words. Eventually it will bring you shame, but for now it only brings you closer to Ari. You and your brother, comrades in arms, equal parts fond and fearful of your father. Or so you thought.

--

The limbs fly up, up, up, all in disarray, and though you have seen this before, and though you will see it again, this is what you will remember: the smoke, that keenly tore at your throat; your eyes, that stung; your panic, and the breath you did not take. Up, up, up.

_Tali_.

Ari drags you away, takes your hand, whispers prayers against your hair. You cling to the family you have and choke, be it on smoke, or tears, or fear. This is the firelight you see, hers is the body you envision and one day, when he is thrown high into the air, it is your sister that you will recall, the dew from God's lips.

--

These city streets, still a maze to the uninitiated, but home to you, always home. The people slide against one another, wary to exchange glances. Scorch marks and metal shells are all that remain of burnt out buses from suicide bombers. The fear lingers, but life goes on. People adjust. You walk where your feet take you in this country, and hope that they can lead you home.

Your pride is fierce, yes, but there is more to your life than your being the fruit of your father's fields, and Ari, the same which was forbidden. Eve took the apple from the tree, the apple of knowledge, and thus man was cast out from the garden. Your father ate at another's table, ate of forbidden fruit, and you will be cast out from Israel, by your own actions, and his hand. Your father loves you. But there is more to you than your past. There is the present now, and soon, the future.

--

Gibbs does not forgive easily and for a while, though he respects you, you think, he holds your brother's actions against you. The land is foreign beneath your feet, the language launches unprepared from your mouth. There is no forgiveness here, though there is solace of a different kind. No sisters, only brothers, those versed in the ways of war. The military is uncomplicated, although the Americans hold different ideas of justice to what you have been taught. Or rather— the idea remains the same, yes, but rather than a limb for a limb you are told that there are virtues to a proportional response. 'Revenge' is unbecoming of the American Dream. Intentions must be hidden away.

And thus: you learn the language, learn to temper yourself. You kill only when instructed, you kowtow to Gibbs and his rules, develop a taste for coffee, potent and unforgiving. You do not kill. You fight and fight and fight to be seen, to be recognised, and you hold steady. You know better now. You know better.

--

Up, up, up; and this is what Abby's reconstruction shows: Gibbs' body thrown back into the wall, the container vaporized in front of him, and you think, you think——

Now who will remember?

--

Gibbs' conviction is strong and you look him in the eye, try not to flinch. He is, unfortunately, fortunately, much like your father in many respects. You try not to think what this means. There is no such thing to Gibbs as believing, only facts and fiction. He maps the distinction clearly. Fact: Ari killed Kate Todd. Fiction: Ari is working for Mossad. You wish you did not believe him. _He is wrong, he is wrong, he is wrong._

--

Fact: Ari killed Kate Todd. Fact: you killed Ari.

Gibbs, craftsman that he is, takes the gun out of your hands and places it in his own, shifting the world to his way of thinking. And so now you know this, and the records know that. The distinction is still clear. Fact: Ari killed Kate Todd. Fact: Gibbs killed Ari.

Fact: Gibbs' past for your present, a lie for a lie, an eye for an eye, and for all your checks and balances your life could not be more dissembled than at present.

--

My brother, forgive me, you think, for the death I deal you. There has been no vengeance, not yet, but it will come. An eye for an eye, an arm for an arm. His life once was exchanged for yours, and you became your father's daughter. Your life will one day be exchanged for his because you stood on that staircase and you pulled the trigger. Your life for Ari's, Ari's for Kate's, Kate's for whatever whim it was that took your brother's fancy. Your father's son. Your mirror. Your inverse.

--

Up, up, up, Gibbs' body is thrown high as you watch the reconstruction again and again. Up, up, up, and facts and fiction collide. An eye for an eye, but you're not blind yet, though one day you will meet your Maker, and perhaps then you will be. Who is there to judge you now? Who is there to give witness to this thing that you did, and to say, yes, it was done, and for this reason alone? Who is there to verify you?

You watch the reconstruction again. Up, up, up comes down, down, down. You play it again.

--

You take matters into your own hands.

**end.**


End file.
